They should have been bitter enemies. Then one man saved the other's life.
A tale of hope for polarized times.
He should have gone home.
Mick Ward had already climbed the 500-foot cliff once that day. It hadn’t gone well. He was shaky. His heart wasn’t in it. Now rain dumped sheets of water down the rock face.
The year was 1976. At age 23, Ward had been a rising star in the British climbing world.
Had been.
Until a split with his first love.
He self-medicated on alcohol and drugs.
“I was young, naïve, stupid,” he says today, looking back with the wry perspective of a 70-year-old.
Drink and drugs helped numb the pain. So did rock climbing without the safety of a rope. What’s now termed free soloing is the climber’s ultimate game of life — or death, says Ward.
“You need to be in the right headspace for soloing. You need to get in the zone. Some days that’s easy; other days, it isn’t. Solution? Don’t go soloing on an off day. Because it could so easily be your last.”
And that afternoon, nearly half a century ago, he wasn’t in the zone. “Heading back up for more… how dumb does it get?” Ward ruefully reflects.
Several hundred feet into his second climb, it all started to unravel. “I felt I was in the wrong place literally and metaphorically, that this was a really bad idea.”
The rain worsened, with water slushing through the cracks.
Going home was no longer an option.
“Suddenly, through the mist and rain, I saw a figure above me, also soloing. The chances of this happening — on a remote crag in the Mournes, on a terrible day — were ridiculously low.”
Near the top of the cliff, Ward caught up with the other climber.
Without a word, the two men knew a lot about each other.
“Northern Ireland is one of the most tribal countries in Europe. People read you instantly.”
Ward was Catholic, middle-class; the other climber was Protestant, working-class. They came from climbing clubs that were bitterly opposed.
The other climber immediately sensed that Ward was in trouble.
“He knew something was wrong.”
Without any hesitation, the other climber reached into the pocket of his climbing breeches and pulled out what appeared to be a worn red bootlace. He dangled it, urging, “If you get really scared, grab it.”
The offer made no sense. The guy wasn’t attached to anything.
“It was crazy for him to do that. He’d be throwing his life away. If I grabbed that bootlace and slipped, we were both gone,” says Ward. “How could I take up such an offer? I couldn’t. I think I muttered something in embarrassment. Maybe ‘It’s all right.’”
But the unexpected gesture had done something crucial. It anchored Ward in the moment. Both men climbed on, one behind the other.
At the top of the cliff, the finish of the route, the other climber turned and spoke.
“I’m Sammy John Crymble.”
“Mick Ward.”
The two shook hands in the pouring rain. Then they went their separate ways.
“I knew who he was — a senior climbing instructor at the elite Glenmore Lodge in Scotland. And ironically, he was the best friend of my chief climbing rival,” says Ward. “I never met Sammy John again. What he did that day went beyond kindness. To put your life on the line for a complete stranger? It was an outrageous affirmation of humanity. If a few rare people like him can behave in such an exemplary manner, surely the rest of us can do our little bit to make this world a slightly better place?”